EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The Bastard's family was pretty notorious. Entire generations lived in a small trailer on an expensive lot near the ocean. They wouldn't move, no matter how much developers offered them, and they wouldn't work, either. Mostly, they sat outside—rain or shine—and drank, throwing their empties into an ever growing pile in a part of the yard that had once housed a driveway.

  The Bastard had that bad-boy charm. At least, that was what fifteen-year-old Roxy had thought. She had been a straight-A student, and remained so, graduating at the top of her class, earning several partial scholarships—enough so that the Maizes could send her to the school of her choice in California.

  The Bastard followed. By this point, he had dropped out of high school, lost three jobs, and had his first DUI. Yet for her, the charm remained.

  For Ike, who complained about him every moment he got, the Bastard was a gigantic version of Wicked, peeing all over the neighborhood, then barking and yipping when anyone else got in his mangy little way.

  When the Bastard followed Roxy to California, I stopped thinking about him.

  "I thought he was still in California,” I said. That was what Stella had told me one morning when we met at the mailboxes, both of us picking up our rain-soaked copies of the Oregonian.

  "He went to live with his mother in Vegas,” Ike said.

  "Oh, jeez.” I didn't even have to ask how that was working out. When you took do-nothings and gave them the opportunity to get rich quick for very little effort, they spent every dime they hadn't earned on penny slots and the upcoming big win.

  "Yeah,” Ike said. “Good riddance, I thought. But he threatened to come back and get his things. I told Roxy to get a restraining order, but she thinks he doesn't have the balls to drive all the way up here."

  "But you think he does,” I said, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. I agreed with Roxy on this one. A third-generation do-nothing wasn't going to drive across three states just to retrieve his things. That would take too much effort.

  "Yeah, I do,” Ike said. “He's a mean, weasly little bastard who thinks my daughter is something he owns."

  He took the final sip of his beer and sighed.

  "I'm not the smartest man in the world,” he said, “but I've seen guys like him before. When they think they're losing the only things they own, they get dangerous."

  I hadn't thought of that. Ike was right; sometimes do-nothings became violent and possessive. I hadn't seen that in the Bastard, but then I hadn't done much more than exchange a few sentences with him in a little more than five years.

  "Why would he take Wicked?” I asked.

  Ike gave me a chilling glance. “Because my daughter loves that horrid little dog. Although for the life of me, I have no idea why."

  * * * *

  In the next few days, the Wicked saga became the focus of neighborhood gossip. From Dave the plumber, I heard that Ike had the cops searching for the Bastard's truck. From old Mrs. Gailton, I heard that Roxy had been getting threatening phone calls. From Stella, I heard that Roxy had finally hired an attorney to finalize the divorce and to get that all-important restraining order.

  The whole family believed that the Bastard had stolen Wicked, although the chief of police, Dan Reilly, thought the little dog had finally run away.

  "Good riddance,” he said. “The nasty thing peed on my leg one afternoon."

  We had run into each other at the local A&P. We stood in the fresh fish aisle, which smelled of both fish and cocktail sauce. Twice during our conversation, the butcher snuck us bits of a steak he was cooking up in the back.

  "We're looking for the Bastard, of course,” Reilly said. He was a big man with gym-rat muscles. They made him look formidable in his gray-green uniform.

  As he spoke, I smiled to myself. Ike had everyone in town calling his daughter's soon-to-be ex the Bastard. “But I doubt we'll find him. He knows better than to come back here."

  "Why's that?” I asked.

  "He's got a bench warrant,” Reilly said. “You didn't know that?"

  "No,” I said. “Does Ike?"

  "Now he does."

  "What did the Bastard do?” Even I had picked up the phrase.

  "Robbed the Cruise Inn one Friday night using his father's forty-five. Got away with about one hundred dollars, but the crime's pretty serious. See, it's—"

  "Armed robbery,” I said. “A felony."

  Reilly's eyes twinkled. “Forgot you write about this stuff."

  Usually I write about bigger things. Stockbrokers taking down entire corporations and having hit men after them; the President surviving assassination attempts; and, of course, my biggest seller, the serial killer truck driver working the Pacific Northwest who finally gets caught by the plucky female cop from the Oregon Coast.

  "How come I never heard about this robbery?” I asked.

  Reilly shrugged. “The Cruise Inn doesn't want anyone to know how easy they are to rob. Or how often they do get robbed."

  "How often do they get robbed?” I asked.

  "At least once a month. We leave it out of the police report as per their request."

  I shook my head, this time letting my amusement show. These things happen in small towns. In fact, when I moved to Seavy Village, Ike Maize told me that the best way to get your news was to talk to the locals. The paper didn't cover most of the interesting stories, since we were a tourist town and we didn't want our tiny crime waves to scare the tourists away.

  "How long has he had that warrant?” I asked.

  "Since before he went to California,” Reilly said.

  At least a year then. “Why didn't you tell Ike? He knew where the Bastard was."

  Reilly sighed. “I thought about it. But Ike and Roxy fought about the Bastard enough. Ike almost lost his daughter because of it. So I never said anything to Ike, although I did find out where the Bastard and Roxy lived. I tried to get someone down there to act on the warrant, but they wouldn't. Seems a hundred-dollar theft, even if the thief used a forty-five, is small potatoes to them."

  I wondered how much anguish it would have prevented for the Maizes to have the Bastard arrested in California. But that would have been before the marriage went south, and Roxy might've gotten stuck, like so many women did, waiting for her man to get out of prison.

  "What if he has come back to town?” I asked.

  "I would've heard about it,” Reilly said. “Everyone's looking out for him."

  "Now they are,” I said. “But a week ago? I had no idea this was going on. Neither did anyone else in Crest Hill. And we were the ones most likely to see him."

  "He's not in town,” Reilly said. “You can take that to the bank."

  If I took it to the bank, I wouldn't be able to deposit it. Much as I liked Dan Reilly, he was a place-holder chief of police, one of the local boys made good until the out-of-town replacement showed up like she was supposed to do sometime the following spring.

  Reilly, for all his certainty, really didn't know much about police work. He knew Seavy Village, and nothing else. Usually, in this town, that was enough. But bench warrants, armed robbery, and hints of violence took the Bastard out of the local small-time range and into something much more dangerous.

  Something I really didn't want on the other side of my fence, not even for a short, dog-stealing visit.

  Still, I didn't hear any more trucks except Ike's reliable one-ton. Occasionally Isabel barked, but those were welcome-home barks for her family or her standard warning to the UPS guy not to get too close.

  The Goddess and I worked every day. I progressed on the latest book. She growled at the raccoons. We both had a productive week.

  Until we heard a truck zoom its way up the Maizes’ driveway. The Goddess murped at me as she ran from the double glass doors to the library window.

  I didn't go to the library window at all. I hurried out of the office, grabbing my cell phone along the way.

  The truck I heard was bigger than Ike's. It was one of those with the double-lo
ng bed. I had no idea what kind it was—trucks aren't my specialty—but I called this kind, which stood higher, wider, and longer than most trucks, penis-shrinkers. I figured any guy who wanted one of these was overcompensating for something.

  I had already dialed 911 as I approached the fence. Through the slats, I could see the Bastard. He had stepped out of the truck's cab, leaving the door open. The truck was running, and even over the roar of the diesel engine, I could hear the dinging of the warning bell, reminding us all that the keys were in the ignition.

  The Bastard ignored the sound. He was one of those guys who changed from a thin, somewhat good-looking teenager to a muscular, menacing twenty-something.

  As I reached for the gate's handle, I saw Roxy step out of the garage. Isabel was barking, a strange, frightened bark I hadn't ever heard from her. She blocked Roxy's path, but Roxy went around her.

  Roxy, still carrying baby weight around her hips and stomach. Roxy, carrying the baby—now a cute blond toddler—tightly in her arms.

  "You're not supposed to be here,” she said in a frightened voice as the 911 dispatch answered on my cell.

  I stopped, softly gave my address, and said, “We need police up here immediately. We have a felon with a bench warrant against him in my neighbor's yard, threatening everyone he sees."

  Then I pulled the phone away from my ear, opened the gate, and stepped onto the Maizes’ driveway.

  The Bastard whirled toward me. He had something white and bloody in his arms, and I realized that it was Wicked. I couldn't tell if the dog was alive or dead.

  "Go away,” the Bastard snarled at me. “This is a family matter."

  "It's a neighborhood matter,” I said loudly, hoping the 911 dispatch could still hear me. “You're not supposed to be on Ike Maize's property. There's a restraining order against you."

  I said all of that for the 911 dispatch, not for the Bastard. Still, he glared at me with so much anger that my pulse started to race.

  "Is that Wicked?” Roxy asked, her voice shaking.

  "Stay back,” I said.

  But her question had turned the Bastard back to her.

  "Yeah.” He tossed the dog onto the driveway. The dog bounced on the gravel and then, appallingly, whimpered.

  Time and time again, I had imagined horrible, hideous ways to kill that dog, but now that I saw it in front of me, I was ashamed for myself and terrified for the dog.

  So was Roxy. She ran to the dog, and as she did, the Bastard ran toward her.

  "Roxy, don't!” I yelled, and I ran toward both of them.

  But I was too far back. The Bastard grabbed his daughter from Roxy's arms and raced for the truck. He cradled the toddler against his chest as he jumped into the cab, pulling the door closed.

  "Noooo!” Roxy screamed, running for the truck. I ran for it too. She got there ahead of me, grabbing the door handle.

  The Bastard shoved the truck into reverse and sped up, sending gravel in my direction. It hit me like sharp needles, but I kept going.

  Roxy lost her grip, falling backward.

  For one horrible moment, I thought he was going to back over her, but he didn't. He maneuvered around her and sped off down the driveway.

  I reached her side a moment later. Her knees and hands were scraped and she sat there, defeated, staring at the truck down on the road.

  "Here,” I said, thrusting the cell phone at her. “I've already called nine-one-one. Give them the license plate and the make of the truck. I'm going after the Bastard."

  I didn't give her time to argue. As I ran back through the gate, I realized I should have told her to call her dad as well. I hoped she was smart enough to figure that out.

  I ducked inside my house, grabbed my car keys, and sprinted for my one indulgence. That Jag could outperform any other car in Seavy Village. And it could outperform a penis-shrinker, too.

  I slid into the driver's seat and started the car in the same motion. It purred into life, the engine ready to go at whatever speed I wanted.

  I peeled down my driveway—something I had always wanted to do, but never dared to, not in this quiet subdivision. I turned right at the bottom of the driveway, thanking whatever developer had designed this place for the long twisty road that took us out of the subdivision to the highway.

  I could just see the truck at the intersection. He didn't come to a full stop—he was kidnapping his daughter, after all—but the stupid Bastard had his signal on.

  He was turning left. To the straightaway that would take him out of Seavy Village and down Highway 101, away from the police and into a kind of legal no-man's land.

  He pulled out, and for the first time, I cursed the fact that I had given Roxy my phone. I wanted to tell the dispatch what direction he was going in.

  Of course, in this tiny town, he had only two choices—north or south. The smart direction was south. Anyone with a brain would think of that straightaway and legal no-man's land.

  There, in the miles between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, the Seavy Village Police Department lost its jurisdiction. For ten miles, only the state police could arrest anyone. Then the Whale Rock police took over.

  The state police, underfunded and undermanned, never patrolled that section of the highway. If they had to come in to make an arrest, they often had to come from another part of the county—sometimes from another part of the state.

  When I reached the intersection, I didn't stop, either. I turned left, sliding behind a black Subaru and in front of a bright blue Smart Car. The Smart Car slammed on its brakes, but I was already passing the Subaru, heading south at eighty miles an hour, double the speed limit.

  There weren't a lot of cars on the road, but there were enough that I had to weave and dodge around them, moving from the southbound lane to the passing lane to the shoulder in the areas where I could see far enough ahead to make sure there were no cyclists on the road.

  The hotels and convenience stores, the kitschy restaurants and antique stores, sped by me in a blur. My engine roared as I shifted into the final gear, cranking the speed up to 100 miles per hour.

  I had never driven these roads this fast. Part of me hoped someone would report me to the police—I could lead them on a chase to the Bastard, and then, since they were already on the scene, they could arrest him for the state police.

  Part of me prayed that I wouldn't hit anything or anyone. If I hit someone going this fast, I'd kill them. My Jag was so well built that I'd probably survive, but I wasn't sure I could live with myself.

  Then I thought of that little girl. I had only gotten a glimpse of her, even though she'd lived right next-door for the past few weeks. Tiny, blond, quiet for someone that age, on this afternoon she had been wearing a pink dress that showed her chubby legs.

  Those legs were probably coated with Wicked's blood, rubbed off from the Bastard's hands.

  I shuddered, gripped the steering wheel tighter, and pressed hard on the accelerator. I continued to weave, continued to pray, and finally, as the road narrowed and curved up the mountain between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, I saw the truck.

  It was hard to miss with that extended back end. A lot of young men in Seavy Village loved those trucks, but most couldn't afford them.

  It had to be the Bastard.

  I drove even faster.

  The truck moved closer at a rapid pace.

  Now if I swerved, I would hit the guard rail, maybe bounce over it and fall wheels over roof all the way to the ocean. Or if I crossed into the northbound lane, I would hit the mountainside.

  I wouldn't survive either of those.

  My breath caught. I had to make myself exhale and think. I couldn't force the Bastard off the road because he had the toddler with him.

  But there was a wide area in the road, about eight miles from this point, where another road—coming from the east—intersected it. I could force him down that road, away from the ocean.

  That road dead-ended into a large parking lot that led to a state park.
r />   I zoomed up to him, then around him, hoping that he was smart enough to stop or turn when he came across an obstacle. He knew these roads better than I did, and I hoped that would influence his driving as well.

  When I reached the road that formed a T with the highway, I glanced east. The road was as wide as I remembered. Someone driving fast could make a quick turn—even if that someone was in an extra long truck.

  I stopped only a few yards away, turned on my flashers, and blocked both lanes. I kept watching both lanes, hoping that the first vehicle to approach—on either side—would be the Bastard's truck.

  Of course, it wasn't. A minivan heading north pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man with a paunch and graying hair got out. He walked around to the driver's side and knocked on the window.

  "You okay?"

  "No,” I said. “Move away from my car."

  "You can't block the road."

  In the distance, I saw the truck. I pointed at it.

  "You see that truck? The man in there is wanted for armed robbery. He kidnapped the baby in the car with him. I'm trying to force him to stop. You got a cell phone?"

  The man was looking at the truck, squinting. “Yeah."

  "Call the police. Tell them you've seen the gray long-bed truck that everyone's looking for. Tell them he's gone into Whale Cove State Park. Can you do that?"

  "Um—"

  "Because I'm going after him and I need backup."

  The truck had nearly reached the T. He was at the point where he would see the car blocking the highway. At that moment, I realized it was good to have the middle-aged man alongside my Jag. The Bastard wouldn't know I was waiting for him.

  He turned east, just like I expected him to. His truck was too big to make a U-turn. The drive to the parking lot and back would allow him to drive north again.

  "Move!” I said to the middle-aged man.

  A smart guy, he ran behind my car, so that I could zoom after the Bastard.

  My initial plan had been to follow the Bastard down to the parking lot, but as I drove the few yards, I realized that was stupid. The best thing I could do was park in front of the T. He'd have nowhere to go.